


Wicked Games

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Dark fic, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Horror, Individual chapters will be tagged in the notes, It's a sex dungeon so likely all the sex, Kidnapping, Medium Burn, Oral Sex, confessed feelings, more TBA - Freeform, non con elements, sex dungeon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2020-10-04 11:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: When a trickster seeks revenge on Gabriel, he traps the archangel in a sex dungeon with the person he despises the most: you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter tags: swearing, people being dicks, implied violence

“Seriously? You’re going to leave me with  _ her _ ?” Gabriel’s disdain is palpable, overflowing from his features and spiraling out into the space surrounding him. 

You try not to take it personally. You’d hate feeling leashed too, if you were an ancient being whose entire existence consisted of being top of the food chain, and you imagine it especially hits a nerve given how he’s spent the last seven years. 

“If you didn’t want a chaperone, then maybe you should have stayed put for the five minutes we told you to, instead of inviting a bunch of your old friends over for tea and almost getting us all killed!” Dean insists.

“How was I supposed to know they were on Loki’s side?” Gabriel demands.

You can see the way betrayal sparks bright behind gold, another heavy blow to an ego that, by all accounts, should be shredded beyond recognition. Maybe it is, but even you have difficulty discerning when he insists on being such an ass about  _ everything _ . 

"Because all gods are a bunch of backstabbing assholes?" Dean guesses. He’s just as sardonic and pissy as the archangel is these days, so much so, you can’t stand being in the same room with them. 

"They're not gods," Gabriel says flatly. "They're maenads." 

"I don’t really care what they are," Dean retorts, gesturing to dismembered corpses strewn along the floor. "Demi-God, god, trickster,  _ whatever _ . The name changes, the song stays the same. You can't trust  _ any _ of them!"

If eye rolling were an Olympic event, the archangel would take home the gold. He folds his arms over his chest, his entire upper body getting into the movement. His head drops back and the look on his face suggests even Heaven can’t help him as his weight shifts between feet. 

You can't blame him. The entire situation screams  _ power move _ by Dean. As much as you don’t agree with it, you’re not really in a position to either challenge  _ or  _ refuse him, and you suspect the current predicament is as much a means to keep  _ you  _ in line as it is Gabriel.

"Look," Sam steps into the fray, trying to be the voice of reason in this whole mess. "We need you, and, like it or not, you need us." 

Short, sweet, to the point, and more importantly,  _ accurate _ .

"And if there are more of these things out there," he looks down at the bodies at his feet. "Then it sounds like you could use someone to help watch your back." 

Gabriel's glare swings toward him, skepticism bubbling through the surface of his anger.

“And I don’t know what you’re complaining about, because  _ she’s _ the one that dropped those things, not us,” Sam adds, a touch of attitude broaching his tone to drive his point home. 

While you appreciate the reminder, it’s not as if the archangel wasn’t there, moving perfectly in tandem with you. Somehow, you make a great team, despite how roughly things go when there isn’t a common enemy you want to murder instead of each other. 

As Gabriel’s scathing stare slides in your direction, you feel another layer of your patience peel away. You’re not thrilled with the situation anymore than he is, but then again, when has he  _ ever  _ been thrilled to see you?

That’s not entirely true. There was a time he was playful and cheeky, where he used to call you endearing nicknames that drove Dean insane. Even if they weren’t really for your benefit, it had been nice to pretend  _ someone _ might want to call you those things.

Now, he calls you the  _ littlest Winchester _ , despite the fact you are not related to the infamous brothers, and he treats you no differently than if you were one of them, which most days means you catch a whole lot of flak for things you’ve never done. 

You recognize it’s a defense mechanism. He’s been through so much between his family, Loki, and Asmodeus, though it’s hard to remember that when you’re dragged into the latest pissing match, and he acts like the whole thing is  _ your  _ idea. 

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly my idea of a good time either,” you mutter, your irritation getting the better of you. 

You miss the way something shifts in his features, eating away at the hardness around the edge of gold as you glance back to the brothers and add, “And if I’m delegated to playing nursemaid to  _ that  _ one,” you jam your thumb toward the surly archangel, “Then you two are on cleanup duty.”

Dean makes a face, looking down at the collection of limbs on the floor. Surprisingly, he doesn't argue. "Sam, get some trash bags from the trunk. The industrial ones." 

As if he has to specify you need the body-sized ones. 

“And my bag please,” you ask. 

Sam nods, slipping out the door without another word. 

There’s an extra tension in the room whenever it’s just the three of you. You used to be the one to manage it, the one who could smooth things over whenever the two of them locked horns, but now you’re just as at odds with them as they are with each other. 

It doesn’t feel right. None of it does. The bitterness. The constant fighting. Only you don’t know what to do about it anymore. 

"C'mon, grumbles, let's get your mess cleaned up,” Dean orders, toeing what might be part of an arm with the edge of his boot.

Gabriel is  _ not  _ pleased to be on the receiving end of a nickname, face pulling into a sardonic smile that borders on murder. Before he can zing anything back in the hunter’s direction, the door swings back open and Sam walks in, supplies (which wisely includes a tarp and some heavy duty rubber gloves) in hand. 

"Notice I said you  _ two _ ." You gesture between the brothers, murmuring a thanks to Sam as he hands you your bag. 

"What do  _ you  _ plan to do? Supervise?" Dean’s in rare form, and there’s a thinly veiled accusation simmering beneath green that you can’t touch right now. 

“You think those claw marks are going to stitch themselves?” You question, gesturing toward the Gabriell’s shredded leg. From the amount of blood and nearly black stain on his pants, you’re certain he’s only alive because he can’t technically die from bleeding out. 

You reach into your satchel and pull out your modified first aid kit. It has the basic supplies, the biggest difference being the amount of gauze and bandaging included (for those archangel sized wounds) and some herbal components that stimulate grace regeneration. 

You move a chair next to the dresser in front of what might be the only clean section of carpet left. 

"Drop the jeans,” you order, patting the back of the chair with invitation as you begin to lay out what you’ll need. 

There's a brief moment where the Gabriel you knew flits to the surface. "Here? In front of everyone?  _ Kinky _ ."

You almost smile.  _ Almost _ . Because one light moment isn't even close to being a bandaid on your relationship. No matter how much you'd like it to be. 

Especially when he follows it up with another blow.

"But I think I'll pass on being the guinea pig to your Dr. Doolittle and take care of myself, thanks." He holds out his hand expectantly, and it takes a concerted effort not to smack him upside the head with the supplies. 

You settle for shoving them directly at his chest.

“Well if  _ nobody  _ needs me,  _ I  _ need some air.” 

“They need you,” Dean gestures to the body’s on the floor. “Us, right here?” He swings his finger between himself and Sam. “We need you,” he says pointedly as you pass right by him. “Hey!”

Your instincts flare as he moves toward you, and there’s a visceral jolt through your chest that prepares you to react. Sam intervenes before you get the chance, tall frame stepping between you as he puts a hand on his brother’s chest. 

“ _ Dean _ .” 

You don’t care what look is burning into your back right now. You’ve spent the last two days trapped in a car with a volatile version of Dean who reminds you of something you spend most of your time desperately trying to forget ever existed. 

“Let her go.” 

Dean doesn’t fight him, and the slam of the door is your final contribution to the conversation before you take off across the parking lot. 

*** 

You should have kept walking. Doubled back to the highway. Hitched a ride in any direction, so long as it was away from there. Away from  _ him _ .

Gabriel’s camped out on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed. Instead of watching TV or playing on his phone like any  _ normal  _ being would, he’s bouncing a baseball against the wall with a persistent  _ ker-thunk _ . 

It’s the same motion over and over: off the thin carpet, against the same dingy spot parallel to the dresser, pausing just long enough to make you wonder if he’s  _ finally _ done, before starting all over again. 

Good  _ god  _ it’s annoying. How did you ever put up with him?

Only you  _ know _ how. 

Before, he was smooth. He knew how to lay on the charm and flatter his way into good graces. He used to be like Cas; beneath that outer surface lay something soft and warm, though instead of a rough veneer, it was the guise of detached hedonism. 

But now he’s all pointed barbs and caustic sarcasm, and it rubs you so raw that you have little patience left to weather the truly obnoxious moments anymore.

“Drama queen, much?” You finally snap. You’re young, but the reference isn’t lost on you, and as much as he wants to act like he’s imprisoned, he has far more ways to escape this hole in the wall than you ever will. 

_ Ker-thunk _ . “Better than being a lap dog.” 

He doesn’t miss a beat, and this remark hits harder than you expect. You’re not certain if it’s the connotation or the sheer acidity behind it, but he’s never  _ this _ mean-spirited with you. 

You breath in. 

_ Ker-thunk.  _

Then out. 

_ Ker-thunk.  _

And in. 

_ Ker-thunk _ .

Reminding yourself -  _ ker-thunk  _ \- of all -  _ ker-thunk  _ \- the  _ horrible  _ things -  _ ker-thunk  _ \- he’s been through -  _ ker-thunk  _ \- and how they -  _ ker-thunk _ \- change a person -  _ ker-thunk. _

_ Ker-thunk. _

_ Ker-thunk. _

_ Ker-  _

You grip the edges of your lorebook so hard you’re convinced you’re fingerprints are going to sear straight into the leather binding. 

“Just because  _ you’ve _ been dealt a shitty hand doesn’t give you the right to be a dick to the rest of us.” 

Not exactly where you’d hoped to land, but between him and Dean, the well you maintain to stay diplomatic in these situations has run so dry it’s going to take some biblical sized relationship repairs raining down on you to fill that sucker back up. 

Silence falls and you’re given a moment of reprieve. 

Literally,  _ one _ . 

“ _ I’m  _ the dick in this situation?” His head whips around so fast it reminds you of the movie The Exorcist. “Tell me, which one of us is on a leash right now, and which one is holding it?”

Right. Because it’s  _ your  _ fault he goes into situations half-cocked, low on energy, without any backup, nearly gets himself killed, and pisses off the  _ only  _ allies he may have left. 

“Door’s open, don’t let it hit your ass on the way out.”

There’s a window in the bathroom you’re happy to shove him out of as well, but you decide to keep that suggestion to yourself in an attempt to keep things marginally civil. 

You get up from your chair and toss your book aside, in need of another way to decompress. Despite the fact it’s not even noon, you head toward the mini-fridge, which is stock full of your maladaptive coping mechanism of choice. 

The moment Gabriel sees you pull out a beer, he lets out a scornful snort. "Have another one,  _ Winchester _ ."

His insult hits a target dead center, though it’s not the one he’s aiming for. Instead of slamming your integrity or moral turpitude, or whatever the shit he thinks he’s poking at, you feel cut off at the knees.

You’re not a Winchester, and it’s not that you _want_ to be one so much as know you _never_ can that makes this a particularly sore spot for you. 

The reminder is draining, because it’s always there, hanging over your head, and you’re as sick of it as being caught in a game of Tug of War between two equally stubborn individuals.

“Can we do something other than argue for once?” Exasperation softens the sharpness in your tone as you sit on the edge of the dresser. 

You hold the beer in your hands, focusing on the cold against your palms and the dampness that forms against the warmth of your skin.

He considers your question, absent-mindedly tossing the ball up in his hand. “We could always play a game.” 

For a moment, he almost looks like himself again, mischief sparking, shaking off the varnish within gold. His lips twitch as if attempting to smile, but they're heavy, immobile, and another indication of just how much has changed.

Part of you wants to humor him for the sake of keeping this tenuous break, but the rest of you is pretty god damn tired of being someone else’s punching bag.

“I have a novel idea,” you begin, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your legs. 

He deflates, dour demeanor returning. “Oh,  _ this  _ should be good…”

You regret saying anything, but as with most things in your life, it’s too late to go back. You run your thumb along the condensation of the bottle, tongue darting out across your lips as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. 

“Why don’t we do something productive like, I dunno, talk about the group of deities out for your blood?” You’re careful not to sound  _ too  _ concerned. Doing so gets you batted at faster than a feral cat who’s cornered. 

“Yeah.  _ Real  _ fun topic to be revisiting.” 

It’s still the least combative response you’ve received recently, and it gives you some hope you might be able to reason with him. 

“Gabriel, if I’m going to be sitting next to someone with a giant target on their back, I’d like to know what it is my enemy might be firing so I can do something about it.” 

That, and you’d  _ really _ like to avoid becoming a smear on the wall. 

“Don’t worry,  _ sweetheart, _ there’s nothing coming but a whole lotta blanks.”

You’re not sure what rankles you more: the insincere and wholly mocking term of endearment he throws at you that  _ used  _ to mean something, or how dismissive he is of the danger you’re both in.

“Why won’t you let anyone help you?” 

In the few moments he isn’t forcing you to see a spectrum of red that exists only in his presence, there are startling shades of deep blue that squeeze around your heart because you already know why.

Some part of that must show, his mood worsening exponentially. "Maybe because I don’t need anyone’s help? Especially yours."

And back to square one you go.

"You are the most frustrating man I've ever met," you mutter, slamming the top of your beer down on the edge of the dresser and popping the cap off. You bring the bottle to your lips and the bulk of the drink bypasses your tastebuds, pouring straight down your throat.

“Seems unlikely, given your Winchester worshipping status, but you’re no walk in the park either, toots.” 

You glare at him, wondering just how much trouble you’ll be in with said Winchesters if you decide to paint a banishing sigil on the other side of the bathroom door and blast the archangel’s insufferable ass into the next state. 

As if sensing the brewing mutiny, both your phones buzz, Dean’s contact flashing across both screens. 

_ Meet me at this address. Important.  _

Thank God, or the gods, or whatever was out there for small favors. You need something to do other than go another ten rounds with each other.

“C’mon," you tell him, hopping back to your feet without a second thought.

“Really?”

_ Here it comes _ . 

You down the rest of your drink as he readies his next jab.

“What's up between you and the lumberjack?”

You’d ask  _ which one,  _ but the question is so ridiculous you can’t do anything except blink. “Excuse me?”

Is he implying… what the hell is he implying?

“Every time he says  _ jump  _ you ask  _ how high  _ without a second thought, but here you are, all up on my lamp post about not knowing what you’re walking into.”

There are differences between him and Dean.  _ Big  _ ones. Ones he should be able to grasp, but you don’t trust him to, and if there’s anything you’ve learned with either of them it’s that sometimes it’s just easier to deal with things on your own. 

"There's nothing going on." 

Your quick dismissal only has the archangel's stare narrowing.

"Does he have something on you?" 

“Jesus christ, Gabriel, can we argue about this in the car?” You’d prefer not to argue at all, but getting him out the door is now your number one priority, and you have a feeling this is going to be worse than the time Dean left you with that toddler from Hell. Literally, a demon hiding in a three year old’s body that knew how to push every one of your buttons so you’d overlook the fact it  _ couldn’t  _ cross the line of salt in the doorway, rather than  _ wouldn’t _ . 

“I’m being serious,” he says grabbing you by the arm as you try to pass. The contact startles you, as does the admission that follows. “I know I've been kind of an douche lately --”

“Kind of?” 

He ignores your knee-jerk response. “The point is, you can talk to me."

That might be the funniest thing he’s said all day. 

You snort. "Good one."

“I’m serious.” He pins you beneath a sober stare, one noticeably lacking a scathing edge.

You’re not certain what to do with that. 

“He doesn’t have anything on me, alright?” You sigh. “Now can we please go?”

He eyes you even more intently before his features abruptly harden again. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him.”

You decide not to justify that with a response. Not a verbal one anyway. You hope the middle finger you raise in his direction as you try to head to the door is a clear enough indication of where you stand on the matter. 

As usual, the idiot-savant in him has already made up his mind on the matter. 

“Oh for shit’s sake, you  _ are _ .” He grabs you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, and you’re too busy trying not to scream to notice the myriad of emotions that flash through his gaze. “Seriously? Since when did you become deaf, blind,  _ and  _ dumb?”

He's so far from the truth it should be laughable. Except it isn’t, because it’s  _ him, _ and you’re over this conversation.

“Since when did it become any of your business who the fuck I’m interested in?” You yank out of his grip, shoving him out of your space. “Don't act like you care about me or anything other than playing Uma Thurman in your little Kill Bill revenge fantasy." 

Gabriel freezes, surprised by the sudden burst of hostility from you. 

"Now you can either get in the car, stay here, or fuck off to Fiji for all I care, but  _ I  _ am leaving," you snarl before storming out of the room.

You didn't sign up for this. He and Dean can sort it out between themselves if they're going to insist on being self-centered pricks the entire time. You just want to wake up one morning and feel like you’re worth something again, something no one else seems inclined to let you do.

Before you even make it to the vehicle, Gabriel’s there, waiting for you in the passenger seat. You’re relieved  _ and  _ annoyed. You need a break, but despite that, you know this is far,  _ far  _ better than facing an irate Dean. 

Mostly. It really depends on how much trouble either of your mouths can get into. 

The answer is  _ potentially plenty _ once you plug the address into your phone’s GPS and realize you have a forty-five minute drive into the middle of nowhere ahead of you. 

You take a deep breath, managing not to wrench open the car door. There are far worse things you’ve endured. How bad could one car ride turn out?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: kidnapping, non-consensual removal of clothing, threats of violence

“_You are_ _such an asshole_!” 

You’re crouched behind - well, you honestly don’t want to  _ think  _ about what it is you’re hiding behind. Your stomach flips just acknowledging the combination of wood, leather, and metal bars, let alone the  _ variety  _ of uses one could get from it. 

There’s a chill to the room that settles across every inch of bare skin, which happens to be just about  _ all  _ of you, because  _ someone  _ decided to outdo themselves in the giant dick department and play the douchiest prank of the century. Possibly the last  _ several _ by snapping you to some god awful place in a matching set of black lace bra and panties.

This isn’t what you expected to find walking into an abandoned hunting camp in the middle of the woods. It  _ has  _ to be Gabriel’s doing. There’s no way that faded wooden planks can disguise this much concrete, let alone double in size the moment you walk through the door. 

You know you saw windows, a little sliding glass door off the side, but the only glass you can find comes in shapes for things you’re trying really hard not to remember exist. 

“This isn’t funny!”

“Do you  _ hear  _ me laughing?” The sardonic edge beneath his words becomes lost to you as you look up at the wall. 

There are rows and rows of hooks with various items hanging from them. Floggers, paddles, canes,  _ whips,  _ all staring back at your wide-eyed face.

Then there's the restraining materials; ropes, chains, zip ties, leather cuffs, actual  _ manacles _ , metal ones that belong in medieval dungeons. 

Given the lack of anything but wall to wall stone, you can't discount that you might really be in one. 

_ What the actual fuck.  _

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you have to remind yourself that none of this is real; you haven't actually woken up naked in some sort of sex dungeon. This is just Gabriel being a shit. 

The  _ worst  _ kind of shit, but one nonetheless.

"Bring us back," you order, hugging your knees to your chest. 

"You need to calm down," he barks right back at you. 

Yeah, like  _ that's  _ helpful. Like you  _ want  _ the sensation of your lungs shrinking as another windowless room starts to overlay this one. 

You try to focus on something else, but it’s hard to ignore the way your head begins to spin as you struggle to take in air, how unforgiving the lights above you are, highlighting all the physical reminders of why you  _ hate  _ being boxed in by concrete. 

The back of your neck begins to burn with a familiar feeling of helplessness, signalling things are about to get messy real fast.

"You need to bring us back _right fucking now_!" You've never yelled at him before, not like this, and he has to know how much he's messed up and snap you back. He _has _to.

"I can't!" He erupts, voice booming through the large room. "You really think I'd snap _ myself _ naked into a place like this?" 

The unspoken  _ with you  _ is a given, and you're  _ so done  _ with everything that it takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in.

He’s  _ naked _ ?

You lean toward the end of the table, curiosity making you slowly peek around the side. A muscular thigh greets you, pale golden skin offset by meticulous black stitching that runs nearly to his knee. He shifts his weight, and you yank your head back a split second before anything  _ else  _ can slide into view. 

_ Oh sweet jesus. _

Heat sweeps into your cheeks. Of course he’d be naked. Why  _ wouldn’t  _ he be?

"You know anyone else that can pull things out of thin air?" Your retort comes out a little less confident, though you’re still not convinced he’s not to blame. Who’s to say he’s not smart enough to put himself in a precarious position to prove his supposed innocence?

He goes silent, and after several seconds of nothing you begin to worry.

Your second glance around the corner gives you an eyeful of firm backside. He’s drawn up to full height, spine straight and proud as if surveying his handiwork.

What. A. Jerk. 

"It's got to be another trickster," he announces.

Yeah. Like you’re going to buy  _ that _ . 

Your eyes are drawn past him to the carnival-esque signs that detail what can be found on each wall, as if advertising for things like ring tosses and balloon popping rather than dildos and nipple clamps. Not to mention how every wall of sex toys is backlit in some gaudy display, surrounded by obnoxious flashing lights you might find on a gameshow.

What really makes you suspicious is the giant wheel in the midst of it all, which is clearly the centerpiece of this freakshow. 

"You're so full of shit." And you're so  _ so  _ over this. “Give me back my clothes and get me out of here  _ right now _ .”

Apparently, so is he. 

“Are you really that brain dead after spending so much time with the dynamic duo?” He snarls, and it isn’t the contemptuous bite of his tone that has your stomach knotting, but the black bands you notice as he throws his arms out wide. “Because what part of  _ I can’t  _ did you  _ not  _ understand?” 

His hands shake with his frustration, the material around his wrists flaring bright with his anger. 

You swallow,  _ more  _ than familiar with the types of symbols that glow a heavenly blue before fading from sight once again. 

Oh  _ fuck _ . 

“God  _ dammit,  _ Gabriel!” You scream, because you have to scream at something. Someone.  _ Anything _ . 

You drop your head back  _ hard  _ against the metal eyelets behind it. For a moment there’s nothing but the small flare of pain and the increasingly frantic cadence of your heart thumping away in your ears. 

You’re actually trapped. In a sex dungeon. With a powerless archangel who hates you so much he'd likely prefer to bury his angel blade inside you before he touched you with his personal one. 

“What the hell did  _ I  _ do?” 

He has the gall to sound miffed, and you cling desperately to your fury like driftwood to keep your head from going under. 

"Anyone else kick a hornet’s nest lately and now has a host of vengeful deities on  _ their  _ ass?” 

He at least has the decency to shut his mouth for three seconds. 

You, on the other hand, lose the ability to close yours. “Let’s not all speak up at once.”

"Just... let me think.” The bite beneath his words unexpectedly vanishes, and you don’t like how deflated he sounds.

Your mind starts to race, the frantic pace pushing the fringe of hysteria with how fast it whirls.

You should have seen the signs.

You should have walked away. 

You  _ didn’t, _ and just like before, you’re going to pay for it. 

“Jesus Christ, kid, can you take a breath? I can’t hear myself think with the way you’re panicking.” 

He’s not harping for once. If anything,  _ he _ might be the one panicking, but you’re beyond being able to read the subtleties of his demeanor. All you hear is the same message he’s been feeding you for months. 

_ You’re _ the problem. You’re always in the way. Useless. Useless.  _ Useless. _

“Why is it always  _ my _ fault?” You yell. “ _ I’m _ the one that always ends up as collateral in the collective shitstorms you bring down upon yourselves.”

You know you’re not thinking clearly. You’re falling straight down a rabbithole that has nothing good on the other side. But your brain doesn’t see that, and it can’t do anything other than fire away with warning.

“For all the bitching you do with each other, you’re exactly the same.” Your voice continues to rise, adrenaline saturating your system. “You’re so wrapped up in your own agendas that you can’t see what it’s doing to anyone around you even when the damage is sitting  _ in front of your god damn face. _ ”

For the life of you, you don’t understand why you do it anymore. Your relationship with Dean is so broken you’re not sure it can ever be repaired, and you’re pretty certain what shred of one remains with Gabriel won’t survive this encounter. 

The archangel says your name, but you can’t hear him. There’s so much you’ve held back and desperately tried to bury that there’s no more space for it to go. Everything comes barreling to the surface in a tidal wave of rage, because you can’t allow it to be what it actually is. Hurt layered upon injustices that fester so deeply, trying to cleanse yourself of it at this point might actually destroy you. 

But hate, you can handle that. 

“I don’t need either of you  _ or  _ your bullshit excuses!”

For a moment there’s nothing but seething red and an overwhelming need to release it. You don’t even know what’s happening with your foot until it slams against the pillar in front of you. The stone doesn’t give, but your ankle does, and you growl at the explosion of pain that cuts through the whirlwind of emotions inside of you. 

“Now, now, we can’t have you damaging the goods so early in the game…” 

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from, only that it’s everywhere. Above. Behind. Flooding in from every side, wrapping you within the confines of its sultry accent and sending a knot through your stomach. It pulls your head back above the water, where you find you’re dragging in lungfuls of air no differently than if you really have been drowning. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Gabriel knows who it is, and given recent events, you’re not reassured, even if he sounds more peeved than anything. 

The air next to the cement column shimmers, and if there was any give to the object at your back, you would have shot back several feet. The thing sits bolted straight into cement, however, and it doesn’t do much other than wiggle as your spine slams against it. 

You’re not sure what materializes in front of you. Those are definitely human legs rising up from the floor, long and lanky, with golden bronze skin that make you think of places filled with warmth and sunshine. The rest of it is most definitely  _ not  _ a person, though you’re grateful at least  _ one  _ member of this party comes with clothing. 

Somewhere beneath the brightly colored wrap around its waist it changes, skin giving way to a sprinkling of fur that thickens the further up your eyes travel. It’s chest is fully covered with a coat so glossy you’re tempted to see if it really does feel as silky as it looks. As odd as the whole thing is, it helps make the coyote head sitting on top of humanesque shoulders a little  _ less  _ shocking. 

You take in the regal headdress that you imagine says something about its status, the red and yellow feathers a colorful contrast to the sea of blacks, metal, and greys of the room. Nothing about the figure jars anything specific loose from your lore knowledge, though by it’s accent and appearance your guess would be some sort of deity from Latin America.

“ _ You _ .” The archangel grumbles, accusation threading through his word. 

The creature smiles. “Me.” He spreads his arms wide, an exorbitant amount of pride accompanying the gesture, and it’s not lost on you how very Gabriel-esque the whole entrance is. “How  _ are  _ you, old friend? I imagine you’ve seen better days?”

His gaze drops to where you’re sitting, and his head gives a curious tilt. “And I imagine you have too, my dear?”

“Who the hell are you?” You don’t feel as fierce as your words would imply, and you could be wrapped from head to toe and still feel exposed with the way he drinks the sight of you in without shame. 

The thing chuckles, clearly amused. 

“Kid, meet Huehuecoyotl,” Gabriel announces. “Another  _ trickster _ .” 

You can feel the smugness permeating the space around you, bordering on hubris in a way that’s been inauspiciously absent. You can’t help but feel like it’s an act, no different than yours, and it only makes you that much more nervous.

“Now are you going to tell me what is going on, or are you here to finish that round of twenty questions we started at the turn of the century?” He demands.

You can just see him now, hands on his hips, boorish indifference splashing across his features. 

The whole act is just as ignored by the thing in front of you as it would with you. 

“May I?” The trickster inquires, though he doesn’t actually wait before he reaches for your ankle with grotesque nubs caught somewhere between a paw and a hand. 

You jerk back and he pauses, letting out a soft snort. “Ah, yes. How silly of me.” 

An unsettling popping fills the room, and you watch as it’s joints begin to shift, tips extending into fully-formed, fingers. The fur covering them adds another touch of surreal to the whole situation.

“That’s better. Won’t get very far without these.” He wiggles the new digits at you, bones cracking as they shake off their stiffness. 

He’s not going to get far,  _ period _ , opposable thumbs or not. 

You’ve never been so relieved to hear Gabriel open his mouth or intentionally diminish your presence. “C’mon, Coy. Stop wasting time with her.” 

The thing smiles, and your stomach drops at the row of long, jagged teeth that emerges. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do with my time, Loki, or should I say,  _ Gabriel. _ ” He draws the archangel’s true name out, rolling the  _ r _ on his tongue in a way that’s intimate. 

There’s an unmistakable gleam in his gaze when he glances up, and the moment the weight of his stare shifts from you, you realize how magnificent it is. Copper hues blend seamlessly with bronze, the colors tied together with flecks of gold that sparkle more playfully than anything. 

It tugs at something in your chest, something you immediately smother.

“That was quite the trick you both pulled, making the world believe that only one of you existed.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “But we’ll get to that in a moment.” 

With a wave of his hand, the room around you fades to darkness, as the light above your head intensifies. The sudden spotlight makes you uneasy, as does the way you can still touch the floor beneath you, but not the table at your back.

“Seriously. Stop dicking around with her and let’s talk about this.” Gabriel’s voice floats in on the fringes, but it’s like he’s calling across a chasm, the familiar timbre distant and faded. 

It takes all of an instant to realize what’s happening.

“What do you want?” Your arms tighten across your chest, and you’re even more acutely aware of just how exposed you are. 

“So many things.” You can’t begin to unpack the complexities of his statement or the ones that follows. “Mostly, I just want to help.”

Your eyes widen at the knife he brandishes, stomach plummeting well beneath concrete as he holds the blade up in front of your face. Power pours off the metal, prickling over your skin in a way that alarms you. It has to be ancient, filled with something you don’t recognize or understand. 

“Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, we must first destroy it.”

You can’t help but notice the short but curved blade attached to the end or the spiked ridges along the inner edge that can’t be for anything other than tearing through flesh. 

“Pain, as a construct, is ultimately fleeting, though the weight of breaking or watching someone break can be unbearable, no matter which side of the knife you are on.”

You swallow, eyes drifting up to the handle, trying to find  _ something  _ you recognize. 

It’s exquisite, a combination of beautiful gems and the finest spellwork you’ve ever seen with ethereal, symbols and lettering shifting along the surface in a way that almost makes them seem alive. There’s no rhyme or reason to how they move, not that you can tell, and you’d be otherwise fascinated with the weapon, except it’s leveled in your direction.

“Now hold still,” He instructs, his grip on your calf tightening. “I’d prefer not to hurt you more than necessary.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little hairy for you, and you find out the motivations behind Huehuecoyotl's game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: explicit violence, ongoing captivity, sex dungeon

Your instincts finally kick in, and you try to escape… only there’s nowhere to go. 

You dart to the side, colliding with something solid, and the darkness is suddenly a stone curtain walling you in on all sides. 

“This will go easier if you just relax,” he advises congenially, as if he’s about to prick you with a needle instead of doing god knows what with that blade. 

Sweat slick palms drop to cement, muscles coiling tightly in preparation to launch. You wait for the trickster to make his move, and it’s not what you’re expecting, as a surge of limbs shoot out from the shadows, enveloping your body from head to knees. 

Fingers, hands, arms all lock around you like vices, trapping you in place as the trickster gently turns your leg.

“Now remember to breathe through the pain. It’s imperative you feel every moment of this.”

His words skitter along the fringe of your mind, your eyes riveted to the sharp tip he brings down to your freshly wounded ankle. Phantom hands keep your lips pressed tight against your teeth, muffling your scream as he slowly sinks the blade into your skin. 

There’s a white hot flash across nerve endings, and the magic of the item blisters into your flesh as if he were wielding fire instead of metal. Your eyes slam shut at the horrible singing smell assaulting your nostrils, your blood washing warmly down your foot and smearing viscous across the stone beneath your toes.

You half-expect him to jam the weapon in and twist, maybe pop out the joint, hold it up for mock inspection, maybe even conjure some balls and juggle them and it to rub a little salt in the wound. That’s what tricksters do, right? Taunt, tease --  _ torture _ . 

Instead, he simply keeps cutting with surgical precision, gouging out the swelling flesh strip by fragile strip. 

You don’t know how long it lasts, the moments blurring with other seconds in time, warping the construct into something infinite and terrifying. By the time he’s finally finished, it’s someone else’s hands holding you down, dark, verdant oceans overlaying bronze in much more sinister ways. 

The world inks around the edges, until Gabriel’s voice seeps back into it, your strong and steady anchor to pull you back from the darkness.

“Is this because I made an entire village question your virility back in the nine hundreds?” 

The agony vanishes, and there’s a disorienting instant in which everything seems like it’s rushing toward you. It ends in a powerful burst of brightness that forces your eyes to shut tight. 

The moment you open them again, it’s like the last several, hellish minutes have never happened.

The entire room is lit again, and the only thing touching you is the table at your back, wood and metal warm from your skin. The trickster is still crouched in front of you, but he’s simply watching. No knife. No blood. No wounds of any kind, and the pain is somehow already a distant memory, including an ache that never left your foot since a werewolf nearly snapped it off a few years back. 

“Because I’m pretty certain you got me back by shrinking _the_ _goods_ the night you knew I was going to put the moves on Kali,” Gabriel continues. 

The trickster chuckles, “That was a memorable moment, to be sure.” What sings through his smile is good-natured and brief, his affect fading back to grim sobriety. “But this is for a lot of things, old friend.” 

He _almost_ sounds sorry, and between that and the interlude you’ve just shared with him, you’re convinced he’s certifiable. 

That or you are, which is an ever increasing possibility. 

“But you have only yourself and your lies to blame for this.”

If you’re life had a narrator, it’s next line would be:  _ and in that moment, she knew just how bad things were.  _

Anything hinging on Gabriel’s duplicity, innocent or otherwise, means you are well and truly fucked, and you can’t help but think  _ that  _ might be the punchline for this whole setup. 

“You lie to your brethren. You lie to the world. You lie with the hearts of others.”

Something changes in the atmosphere, a subtle shift in pressure that almost makes it feel like you’re on an elevator that’s dropped a touch too fast. It’s distinct, something you’ve only felt on a few occasions, and, in your experience, it’s usually preceded by a resounding  _ oh shit _ splashing across the archangel’s visage.

“But mostly, you lie to yourself.” Bronze orbs brighten with  _ something  _ as the corner of his mouth turns back up. “Now you can lie with those you most despise.” 

“She has nothing to do this,” the archangel insists. “You want your revenge? Take it. But leave her out of it.”

It doesn’t surprise you he would probably rather cut his dick off before touching you with it. You should appreciate the sentiment, but the confirmation from him  _ and  _ the trickster stings.

Is there  _ anyone _ in the universe that doesn’t know of Gabriel’s burning hatred for you?

“On the contrary, I’ve been watching you both for awhile now, and I must say, she’s quite the interesting creature.” The trickster takes a step toward you, reaching down to touch your face. You recoil, and he uses it as another opportunity to remind you just how powerless you are. 

Your legs fuse to the floor, stretching painfully taut as you try and move. You instantly still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching you rip your own skin off just to escape. 

“Coy…” There’s an unmistakable warning beneath Gabriel’s tone. “Leave her alone.”

The trickster grabs beneath your chin, fingers digging firmly into your cheeks as he forces you to look up at him. 

“I said don’t touch her,” Gabriel snarls. 

“And what are you going to do about it?” Coy challenges, fingers sliding down around your throat. He squeezes, cutting off your air as he hoists you off of cement that’s no longer stuck to you. 

“Hey!” The table behind you jolts, and out of the corner of your eye you catch Gabriel being slammed down upon it.

It’s not until you’re dropped on your back next to him that you notice the double that’s got the archangel’s hand pinned painfully up behind his shoulder. 

The trickster holds you there, continuing to choke you as your legs flail helplessly on either side of him. You try to pry his fingers loose, but you’re no match for his strength, your fingernails digging uselessly into his skin.

“I could make you watch the life fade from her eyes, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” His grip lessens, and you greedily suck in a breath of air as the pressure and trapped blood start to seep from your face.

“Fuck you.” You spit, murder flaring in your stare.

“Such  _ spirit _ ,” he marvels, staring straight into your eyes. You can  _ feel  _ the way he’s trying to peel back layers, as if after your very soul. 

It’s even more violating than sitting there without your clothes

His head tilts curiously. “Will you break her, I wonder? Or will she be what finally breaks you?” 

You’ve had enough, your hand slapping his away before you can think better of it.

He chuckles, lips pulling back into a fiendish grin. “My money’s on her. But I guess we’ll see.”

The double releases the archangel and both versions of the trickster take a step back.

“Coy,” Gabriel pushing up from the table. “ _ Wait _ .”

The trickster gives you both a little wave.

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ ,” the archangel growls, lunging for him only to end up with a fist full of air.

“The only way out is to come and play.” Coy taunts, his voice dispersing across the atmosphere before everything returns to silence. 

***

For once, Gabriel isn’t an idiot. He picks up on the accusation buzzing beneath the ongoing silence. 

"He is making a  _ way _ bigger deal out of this than necessary," he insists. 

Some small part of you knows it won't help being at each other's throats, but you’re well past the point of listening to it.

“What did you do to him?" You demand. “And don’t even think about bullshitting me.”

Because if he does, you’re going to leap over the contraption behind you and strangle him, naked or otherwise. 

He either senses your determination or he’s growing as tired as you are. There’s a heavy exhalation as he stalls, and the wood behind you groans as he leans his weight against it. 

“... I ran off with his lover for a century or so.” He pauses, and the ensuing quiet is fraught with guilt. "Twice..."

You close your eyes, head dropping back with a quiet  _ thump _ . He’s lucky you can’t see him right now or else you’d be tempted to do something like punch him right in his big dumb face. 

“Oh, is that all?” You’re trying not explode again, but it can’t be lost on him how much you’d like to bludgeon him with one of the various  _ giant,  _ phallic-shaped items on the far wall near the door.

You wonder if that would appease Hueycoyo-whatever. Death by dick does seem pretty poetic, and isn't that what tricksters love? Desserts, just or otherwise?

"Sweetheart--"

"Don't you  _ sweetheart _ me," you hiss, feeling a manic thread begin to weave through your anger. "This is  _ your  _ mess.  _ Figure it out _ ."

He’s not happy with your attitude, or maybe it’s just the fact you’re  _ beyond  _ done. Regardless, you can sense his defensiveness rising, thickening the air between you. 

"I have an idea."

You can tell by his tone that whatever is about to come out of his mouth is not going to be helpful.

"Why don't _ you _ do something?" He baits. "Or is your plan to simply go out on your ass?" 

Technically, he's  _ right _ . You’ve sat there god knows how long while he’s paced the room up and down, looking for a way out. You should help, but it's like you're trapped by an invisible net, a heavy web of knotted emotions preventing you from being able to stand. 

You're trying to untangle them, but for every rope you manage to fray, another simply appears in its stead. 

"Fuck off." 

You no longer have the energy to spar with him, every ounce pouring into preventing yourself from being sucked into a riptide from which you're not certain you'll find your way out. You’re already so keyed up you’re surprised you’re not buzzing, and if you can feel the energy shifts of his responses, there’s no way he’s oblivious to yours.

The thought adds another layer of bitterness to this whole experience, and you catch yourself clenching your jaw. 

_ Focus _ , you remind yourself. There  _ are _ things to take comfort in, however small they might be.

You know where you are. You're with someone else, grade A ass or not, and as much as he might hate you, he doesn’t want you dead, which is a relief. More importantly, you're not tied up or at anyone's mercy.

_ Yet. _

Your eyes drift up to the wall of restraints in front of you, hands absent-mindedly rubbing at the skin around your wrists. 

" _ Fine. _ " 

You jump at how close he is, voice just around the corner from where you’re seated. 

"You're right, ok? Is that what you want to hear?" 

The fact he's agreeing with you speaks volumes, as does the way he sounds more peevish than anything. 

"This is my fault, but I'm at a bit of a disadvantage here."

You watch his hand appear next to you, moving just close enough to show you the leather cuff around his wrist. He closes his fist, arm tightening as he tries to channel his grace. The warding flares a brilliant blue, growing brighter the longer he tests it until it's almost too harsh to look at.

It’s strange. You can usually feel when he uses his energy, but the air around you stays empty, as if he’s not even there. 

He opens his palm again and everything fades. The symbols remain seared into your vision, floating darkly across it as a visible reminder that there are some things in existence more powerful than an archangel. 

"Gonna need a hand here." 

Even playing field or not, you’re still hesitant to come out from cover. You can only imagine what he’ll eventually say if he sees you like this. 

“One condition,” you tell him, and you don’t give him a chance to respond _ .  _ “You don’t look an inch below my face. Not  _ one. _ ” 

He could reassure you he’s seen countless bodies in his lifetime. That clothing is a construct that modern religions have forced down people’s throats. That there are entire tribes that walk around in various stages of undress without issue. That there’s no shame in the human body, no matter what form it’s in. 

As usual, he goes straight for your throat. 

“Don’t worry,  _ princess _ . I’d sooner lose my hide than look at yours.”

A lump rises in your throat, and it takes you a moment to swallow it. It’s futile to try and explain to him  _ that’s not the point _ . You really don’t need him to understand though, so long as he just does as you ask. 

“Good.” You tell him, voice clipped, and you have no idea just how far from that word things are about to get. 


End file.
